Requiem for a Mezzo

by Carola Dunn

  “Newspaper?” said Mr. Levich. “You want to speak, Miss Westlea?”

  “No!”

  “Then I will.” He took the apparatus from the maid. “Allo? Sorry, plis, I no spik Inglis,” he said in a grossly exaggerated accent and hung up.

  Daisy applauded. He grinned at her. When shortly thereafter the first of a flood of reporters rang the doorbell, Levich dealt with him, and he continued to answer doorbell and telephone bell with equal aplomb and incomprehension. Word got around and the flood slowed to a trickle.

  In between, since Abernathy was teaching in the drawing room, they sat in the dining room. At one end of the table, Muriel and Levich conversed in low voices. At the other, Daisy made notes on the interesting conversations she had had in the choir room at the Albert Hall, so that she wouldn’t forget anything she ought to tell Alec. From across the hall wafted tenor and then contralto scales and arpeggios, long-drawn-out oohs and aahs on various notes, and occasional snatches of melody.

  When Abernathy’s two scheduled lessons were finished, Muriel and Daisy left the men together and went up to Bettina’s bedroom.

  “I told Elsie to pack up her clothes,” Muriel said unhappily. “It may seem a bit precipitate, but Mother and Father will have to have her room. There’s nowhere else to put them. I hope they won’t mind.”

  “If they do, they can always go to a hotel,” Daisy pointed out. The bedroom she’d slept in last night was certainly not big enough for two, and from the layout of the house, she thought Muriel’s and Abernathy’s could not be much larger.

  They met Bettina’s personal maid coming out of the bedroom with an armful of shoes. A spare, sour-faced woman, she looked as if she had a grudge against the world. Daisy wondered what Tom Tring had got out of her besides what he had revealed.

  “I’m putting these up in the boxroom loose for the moment, miss,” she said. “There’s not enough room in the suitcases. And I’ll be wanting to talk to you about giving my notice.”

  “All right, Elsie, but not just now. Is that the last load?”

  “I can’t get in madam’s desk, miss. That sergeant had the key from her handbag, but he checked it was locked and that there’s no spare and took it away again.”

  “He didn’t search it?”

  “Sergeant Tring wouldn’t do that,” said Daisy, “not without permission or a warrant.”

  “And there’s the valuables, miss,” the maid went on self-righteously. “You didn’t say … .”

  “I’ll deal with those. Please tell Beryl she can make up the bed.”

  Daisy followed Muriel into the blue and white bedroom. The wardrobe doors stood open, its bare interior too like a vast, empty coffin for comfort. Muriel hurriedly turned away and crossed to the dressing-table. Among the neatly ranged brushes and combs and cosmetics were three leather jewellery cases.

  “Didn’t she keep her jewellery in a safe,” Daisy asked, “or at least locked away?”

  “No, she used to spend hours going through the cases and gloating over the contents. All her … her admirers gave her jewels. It wasn’t so much the value she cared about, they were more like … .” Muriel hesitated.

  “Trophies? They’ll be yours now, won’t they?”

  “I think so, but how did you know?”

  “Someone told me it was common knowledge Bettina left everything to you.”

  “She used to threaten in public to change her will if I didn’t do what she said.” Muriel sank onto the dressing-table stool and buried her face in her hands.

  “How beastly!”

  “That’s not why I stayed. I told you, I’d promised my parents to look after her, besides having nowhere to go but back to the Vicarage. But she believed it gave her a hold over me, as well as spiting poor Roger. She said he’d taken advantage of her by marrying her when she was too young to know her own mind, and he wasn’t going to profit from it. As though there was the slightest chance she’d die before him!”

  “She did,” Daisy reminded her bluntly.

  “Yes, she did.” Muriel raised her head, dry-eyed. “And if it turns out I really am the one to profit, I shall give Mr. Marchenko back his blasted Russian heirlooms and sell the rest and give the money to Mr. Levich to bring his parents here from Poland!”

  Too astonished either to raise practical issues or to warn her that to the police her inheritance gave her an excellent motive to do away with her sister, Daisy exclaimed, “His parents?”

  “They’re stuck in Poland without the papers or the money they need to leave. Yasha—Mr. Levich, I mean—saves every penny he can to bring them here.”

  “Yasha?”

  “He asked me to call him Yasha.” Muriel’s eyes were starry. “It’s short for Yakov.”

  “I told you you had made a good start,” Daisy said with a smile, but inside she felt cold. Bettina’s will had been common knowledge; Yakov Levich was badly in need of money; he had made up to Bettina’s drab heir and Bettina had died.

  Not for a minute did Daisy believe either Muriel or Levich had murdered Bettina, but Alec would have every reason to suspect both.

  Bettina’s attempts to separate the two only made matters look worse. But that had been part of Marchenko’s diatribe, Daisy remembered. The disgruntled Ukrainian bass had spouted a lot of drivel not worth repeating. Besides, there were plenty of other people with reason to hate Bettina.

  Muriel had gone over to the desk and tried the flap-front. “Locked,” she said, sighing. “Betsy kept every love-letter she ever received. I suppose the police will have to see them. I can’t see any hope of keeping the truth from my parents.”

  “You don’t have to be the one to tell them. Why don’t you talk to Mr. Abernathy about it, see what he thinks you ought to do? He told me he knows about Bettina’s lovers.”

  “Oh yes, he’s always known, poor Roger. She never tried to keep it a secret from him, only from our parents. Yes, I’ll ask him,” said Muriel with relief.

  “Are you going to introduce Mr. Levich to them?”

  Muriel’s mouth tightened. “Yes.”

  “Good. However much one loves and respects one’s parents, one can’t go on forever living one’s life to please them.” Daisy raised a hand to her shingled head: Alec liked it; Mother would simply have to put up with it.

  “But you will stay another night, won’t you? At least one more? With you here, they won’t be able to … to … .”

  “To rag you quite as freely,” said Daisy dryly. “Yes, I’ll stay, but I’ll have to bring some work over. I’ve got an article on the V and A due next week.”

  “You can use the music room. There’s a desk down there, and I shan’t let Roger go down for several days at least.”

  Beryl came in with a duster and a pile of clean sheets and pillow-cases. Daisy helped Muriel carry the jewellery cases and other odds and ends to her own bedroom, then they went downstairs.

  While Muriel consulted Abernathy about what to tell her parents, Daisy talked music with Yakov Levich until the telephone rang and he went to answer it. He came back to announce that the Reverend and Mrs. Westlea had arrived at Liverpool Street Station and were about to take a taxi-cab to Chelsea.

  Glancing at the clock, Daisy was disappointed to realize it was ten to one so she wouldn’t be there when they arrived. Promptly at one, Alec’s yellow Austin Seven “Chummy” pulled up outside the house.

  The small knot of reporters and photographers still lingering hopefully at the gate converged on him. Lurking behind the drawing-room curtains, Daisy saw him say something and shake his head before proceeding up the path. Two of the photographers snapped his back view with the murder victim’s house as background.

  “Drat!” Daisy exclaimed. “I can’t say I’m frightfully keen on appearing in the papers either as Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher’s ‘friend’ or as ‘helping the police with their enquiries.’”

  “You’re both welcome to stay to lunch,” Muriel suggested tentatively as Levich went out to open t
he front door.

  Daisy didn’t think lunching with the infirm widower, two suspects, and the victim’s censorious clergyman father would suit Alec at all. Nor could they very well seek privacy afterwards to discuss the case before Alec interviewed said suspects. While she hesitated over a polite refusal, Abernathy intervened.

  “I expect you and the Chief Inspector will want to talk privately,” he said in his gentle way. “Why don’t you go out the back way through the music room into the alley, Miss Dalrymple? There are several cafés and restaurants within easy walking distance.”

  “An excellent idea, Mr. Abernathy,” said Alec, following Levich into the drawing room. “I was wondering how to avoid the hounds of the Press.” He greeted Daisy and Muriel, then turned back to Abernathy. “I’m glad to see you looking better, sir, well enough to answer one or two questions later on, I hope?”

  “Certainly, Mr. Fletcher. Here’s the key to the back door so that you can return that way. I shall be here.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be wanting a word with you, too, Miss Westlea, if you wouldn’t mind staying at home this afternoon. And since you happen to be here, Mr. Levich … ?”

  “I shall remain,” said the violinist uneasily.

  “Then, if you’ll excuse us, Miss Dalrymple and I will be on our way.”

  Passing Muriel, Daisy squeezed her hand and whispered, “Don’t worry, it’ll be all right.”

  As they went down the back stairs, Alec said, “I didn’t expect to find Levich letting me in. What the deuce is he doing here?”

  “Not letting people in. He’s been invaluable, pretending not to speak English so that the reporters don’t pester us.”

  “At least he had the goodness to speak English to me last night, though he didn’t tell me anything. The other Russian, the bass, wouldn’t admit to understanding either English or French.”

  “Marchenko is a Ukrainian, not a Russian, and he speaks adequate, if not brilliant, English.”

  “I knew he’d been communicating with you somehow. I take it Miss de la Costa is also reasonably fluent? She managed the odd phrase in English between floods of Spanish.”

  “Liberally larded with dramatic gestures?” Daisy laughed. “She is not merely fluent but voluble in English. This way, I think.”

  The wide passage was glassed on one side and wicker chairs showed it also served as a sunroom or summer-house, pleasant even on this grey March day. It led to Roger Abernathy’s music room—converted from the old mews like Lucy’s studio—which contained a full-size grand piano. The walls were lined with shelves piled high with neat stacks of scores and sheet-music. The desk in the corner was also neat, Daisy noted with approval, the appointment book open at the right page and ready to hand, unlike Lucy’s.

  “If you’re not in a frightful hurry,” she said as they stepped out into the alley, “I’ll just pop into the studio and tell Lucy I’ll be staying here another night or two.”

  Alec consulted his wrist-watch. “As long as you don’t get involved in a long conversation.”

  “Come in, then you can drag me away. I’d like to introduce you to Lucy anyway.”

  “Not today. That would take longer than I can spare. I’ll wait here.”

  Daisy opened the back door and went into the studio, long since recovered from her last tidying. “Lucy?”

  No answer. She could ring the bell just inside the door, which sounded in the house—a convenience for clients who arrived in Lucy’s absence—but Alec was in a hurry. Hastily she scribbled a note and drawing-pinned it to the open darkroom door.

  “That was quick.”

  “She’s not there. I expect she’s having lunch. I left a note.”

  Alec frowned. “No one’s there? And the door left unlocked?”

  “Lucy’s a bit careless, I’m afraid. I suppose she’s pretty lucky no one has yet pinched her cameras.”

  “It’s not the cameras I’m thinking about. Miss Fotheringay has a darkroom, doesn’t she? Is that locked?”

  “No,” said Daisy guiltily, though why she should feel guilty she wasn’t at all sure. Except that Alec in his most policemanly aspect, fierce dark brows meeting above piercing grey eyes, was enough to make anyone feel guilty.

  “Does Miss Fotheringay by any chance use cyanide of potassium as a fixing agent?” he asked, his tone caustic. “Does she happen to know it’s a deadly poison?”

  “Oh Alec, you’re not suggesting Bettina was poisoned with Lucy’s cyanide?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Lucy took her portrait,” Daisy admitted, “and it came out so well Mr. Abernathy recommended her to his friends. I should think at least half your suspects must know about her darkroom.”

  9

  “I still think you should have tried to find Lucy instead of locking the darkroom door and taking away the key.” Over her lamb chop, Daisy glowered at Alec as he returned from the telephone.

  “Miss Fotheringay needs a lesson in the proper handling of deadly poisons,” he said patiently, and reminded her, “I did leave a note of explanation.”

  “All the same, she’ll be livid.” Daisy stabbed a Brussels sprout.

  Alec winced. Though Daisy always skated tactfully around the subject, he was all too aware that Lucy Fotheringay strongly disapproved of the Honourable Miss Dalrymple’s friendship with a mere copper. “Tom’s on his way to fingerprint the room,” he said, squeezing a slice of lemon over his fillet of plaice. “He’ll come by here to pick up the key, so she won’t be kept out for long.”

  Daisy cheered up. “So he can warn her about leaving poisons lying about, instead of you.”

  “I shan’t have to see her at all—in the way of business—if she’ll cooperate with Tom. I need a list of her clients, who was alone in the studio, whether anyone expressed interest in the darkroom or the process of developing and printing. If she won’t tell Tom, I … .”

  “No, I’ll get it out of her. You must admit, Alec, she’s a sight more likely to tell me than you or Sergeant Tring.”

  “True.” He sighed. In her inimitable way, Daisy was getting more and more enmeshed in the case. “I gather the same applies to that lot at the Albert Hall last night. I’ve never met such a blank with supposedly respectable people.”

  Her irresistible smile held a pardonable hint of smugness. “Yes, they talked to me.” She pondered. “Or, in a way, through me. Several told me things they wanted you to know but didn’t want to tell you directly.”

  “Great Scott! The artistic temperament, I take it.”

  “With some of them, I expect. With the Russians—Mr. Levich and Dimitri Marchenko, that is—it’s partly general mistrust of the police. Fear, even.”

  “Justified, I dare say, poor devils. All right, let’s start with Levich and go through them in the order you spoke to them.”

  “That’s another thing!” Daisy had a militant glint in her blue eyes. “Did you tell Piper always to take away whoever was with me?”

  Alec grinned. “Of course. I thought you might take it amiss, but I just wanted to make sure you circulated as much as possible.”

  “Oh, I see,” she said, mollified. “Let me see, Levich first? Yes, I went into the choir room with Muriel and he came dashing over.”

  “There’s something between those two, is there?”

  “They’re just friends,” said Daisy, unconvincingly casual. “He was afraid you’d been bullying her—the Russian police-persecution complex. I only had time to reassure him before Piper dragged him off to the interrogation chamber. Then Muriel went to see how Abernathy was doing and Olivia Blaise came over, ostensibly to cadge a cigarette.”

  “Olivia Blaise—Roger Abernathy’s pupil?”

  “And Bettina’s rival. Oh, not for Roger’s affections, though she’s grateful to him and fond of him—which is more than I’ve heard said of Bettina, come to that. But they were rivals for the mezzo part in the Requiem, which could have meant a big boost to someone’s career.”

  “Aha! And Be
ttina got the part.”

  “By the dirtiest trick! Eric Cochran had promised it to Olivia, and Bettina threatened to tell his wife he had a mistress.” Daisy was rather pink in the face, but one way or another illicit sex had come into both the cases she’d been involved in and she didn’t falter. “Cochran used to fetch Olivia from the Abernathys’ house after her lessons, I think. His car looked familiar to me, as if I’d often seen it before. I’m pretty sure he’s absolutely mad about her, but his career depends on Mrs. Cochran’s money.”

  “Motives for both Cochran and Miss Blaise,” Alec mused, “but rather thin. Murder in the middle of the concert was too late for her, and not exactly career-promoting for him, as both he and his wife were at pains to point out. Anything else from Miss Blaise?”

  “She said Bettina was far from pure as the driven snow …”

  “Again aha!”

  “ … But she refused to wash other people’s dirty linen in public, so you’ll just have to wait until I get to that part. Who’s next?”

  Alec consulted the list he’d placed beside his plate. “Consuela de la Costa. Dare I hope she explained why she shrieked, ‘Assassin!’ at Gower?”

  “She ‘esplained’ in considerable detail. Whether I can esplain her esplanation is another matter. She’s Gower’s mistress, and she admits to being wildly jealous because he was also Bettina’s lover. As far as I can make out, she assumed when Bettina dropped dead that Gower had killed her so as to give himself entirely to her. To Consuela, that is.”

  “So she accused him.”

  “No, no, let me get this straight. She was glad Bettina was dead and she’d never have given Gower away, but he guessed she thought he’d done it and he told her Bettina hadn’t been his mistress for some time. He’d continued to meet her often because she was pestering him about a promise he’d made her. So then Consuela thought he’d killed Bettina because she was making a nuisance of herself, not for Consuela’s sake. That’s when she accused him of murder.”